


1973

by inkiestdawn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1973, F/M, Fluff, Oral Sex, Samulet, Smut, awesome car, excellent pie, great music, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-03-26 11:39:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3849544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkiestdawn/pseuds/inkiestdawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little filler for episode 'In the beginning' when Dean is sent back to 1973.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Sorry I’m late,” Gemma says, tying her apron around her waist. 

She looks exhausted. You smile at her, shaking your head, “Don’t worry about it.” 

Trying not to make it obvious, you steal a quick glance at the guy sitting alone at the counter. He’s been quiet but polite. Gemma notices the lingering look- so much for being covert- and giggles.

“I’d offer you my shift, honey, but the kids are wired for sound tonight and I could use the break,” she leans against the counter, pulling a tube of red lipstick out of her pocket and applying a thick coat.

“Alan’s going to have a nice, quiet evening then?” you tease.

Gemma rolls her eyes, “They’re good as gold for him.”

Pressing her lips together, she looks over her shoulder at the customer that’s got you fired up. 

“Never seen him in here before, definitely would have remembered. He give you his name?”

“No, he hasn’t said much,” you admit. You’re good with the customers and can usually get even the surliest of them to talk but this guy, although kind, is buried so deep in his own mind that you’re not even sure he really noticed you at all.

The man’s oversized leather jacket hangs off of him. He sits hunched forward, hands around the coffee cup that he’s been sipping at for the last fifteen minutes. You couldn’t help but notice that his eyes are almost the same shade of green as his shirt.

Gemma wipes down the spotless counter, moving towards him. She smiles and says hello. 

Bert rings the bell, calling out, “Order up.” You grab the two plates that he slides forward, checking the ticket before bringing them out to the floor. Fifteen minutes left in your shift and you’re free. Free to go home to an empty house. Alone.

You place the plates down with a wide smile, asking, “Anything else I can get you folks?”

Switching on auto pilot for the next few minutes, you busy yourself clearing tables and topping up coffee cups. You watch as Gemma places a plate in front of the man at the counter, smiling as he cuts into the pie with his fork and takes a bite. He closes his eyes, chewing slowly.

Back behind the counter, Gemma moves in close to whisper, “No wedding ring, and it looks like he’s loving your pie.”

Bert let you take over the baking for the diner a year ago when you needed the extra cash. You bite your lip, smiling to yourself. There are not too many things you love more than seeing people enjoy your food.

You realize you’re staring when he turns and locks eyes with you. 

“That is the best damned pie I’ve ever had,” he says enthusiastically. 

Gemma hurries over to him, grinning wide, “It’s Y/N that makes the pies. She’s quite the baker.”

You feel a blush burn its way up your neck, colouring your cheeks.

“It’s nothing, really,” you murmur. 

“What’s your name honey?” Gemma asks, “Never seen you around here before.”

He looks between you and Gemma, “I’m Dean,” he hesitates, his fork half way to his mouth when he asks, “would you lovely ladies know of a motel close by?”

You tense as Gemma brightens and blurts out, “Well wouldn’t you know, Y/N here has a small apartment she lets out.”

“Oh,” he says around a mouthful of food, “I won’t be here long.”

Your relief is stalled, surprisingly, by a wash of disappointment. 

“The Last Stop is just…” you say when Gemma cuts you off with a tight smile. She raises her eyebrows at you, shooting you a ‘shut-the-hell-up’ look.

“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

Dean looks from you to Gemma, not sure what to say.

“It is fine, really. It’s nothing much, just a small bedroom, bathroom, and tiny kitchen. It…”

“Sounds perfect,” he smiles, mouth full.

Oh shit, you think, glancing at the clock above the door.

“Well, I’m…I’m off now. I’ll go get it tidied up for you, fresh linens and all that.” You give him a quick, tight smile before grabbing Gemma’s arm and dragging her into the kitchen.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” you hiss.

She flashes Bert a quick smile, her expression changing the moment her eyes meet yours.

“Don’t you start with me,” she chides, trying to keep her voice low, “he’s just passing through. Look, it’s been long enough. Just…” she turns to look through the serving hatch at the man, “you don’t have to sleep with him. But I will judge you if you don’t.”

You laugh at that. Living in a small town, you’ve always been careful but it’s been almost two years since your loser fiancee skipped town and you could use a distraction.

“Fine, but don’t look so damned smug.”

You write your address on the back of a scrap of paper. Trying to steady your breath, you walk over to Dean on wobbly legs and slide the paper to him.

“That’s my address,” you say, “if you need directions, Gemma can help. Just come to the front door and I’ll give you the key. The apartment is around the back.”

Dean smiles at you, looking much happier than he had earlier.

“Great! And honestly, best pie ever.”

***

Feeling a bit foolish, you stare at the uncooked pies you have in the freezer. That morning, you made a few extra shells, experimenting with different fillings; chocolate raspberry, butterscotch banana, lemon mint. Before you can change your mind, you grab the butterscotch pie and place it on a metal tray.

The sun is still up and the day is warm for spring. A mix of excitement and anxiety flutters around in your stomach as you walk around the house to the small apartment at the back.

Inside, you turn on the oven, placing the pie on the counter, and get busy. You strip the bed, taking fresh linens from the closet and making it up. You put the pie in once the oven is warm and hurry about opening the windows to air the place out. You dust and sweep quickly, jumping when you hear a car pull in to the driveway.

Hands shaking, you take one last look around before heading out to meet Dean.

The man is standing in your driveway, running a hand over his short, dark blond hair, staring at your car.

“This is awesome,” he says, smiling, “a ’57?”

You nod, crossing your arms over your chest and feeling like this might not have been such a good idea.

“Damn they don’t make cars like this anymore,” he says in wonder.

You frown at him, “Uh, well..”

“I mean…I just…this is a classic,” he walks around the Plymouth Belvedere, grinning.

“It’s old, I don’t know about classic,” you shrug, “The room’s ready.”

Dean nods, “The paint job…” The hard top two door is two toned; yellow on the bottom shiny black on top.

“It was my dad’s car. I try to take good care of it.”

He looks at you then, “You’re doing a great job. It’s beautiful,” his expression turns serious, “your dad not around?”

Hugging yourself a little more tightly, you shake your head, gnawing at your lower lip and looking down. You scuff the toe of your shoe into the grass.

“Great car,” he murmurs, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“You have any bags or…”

“No, no, traveling light,” he says, walking over to you. You turn, nodding your head towards the house. Dean nods and follows.

Clearing your throat nervously at the threshold, you open the door and step inside.

“It’s not much,” you say softly.

Dean moans as he sniffs the air, “What is that?” Green eyes wide, he walks in, making a beeline for the kitchen.

Feeling like a moron, you stammer, “I…uh…I thought..well, I had an extra pie and thought…”

Swivelling on his heel, he closes the distance between you, takes your face in his hands, and kisses you. Right.On.The.Lips.

It’s quick and soft but you stumble forward when he pulls away. His hands drop to your shoulders.

“Thank you,” he says, eyes moving quickly as he takes you in. Noticing your shocked expression, he pulls away quickly, “Sorry. I…I just…thank you.”

“It’s okay,” you pull back, muttering, “can’t say I didn’t like it.”

Louder, you say, “I’ll give you a quick tour and get out of your way.”

Before he can say anything, you wave an arm towards the kitchen, “Small but functional kitchen, the timer is on for the pie so just take it out when it goes off.”

You hurry to the bathroom, opening the door and flicking on the light, “Bathroom and,” you point to the door on the left, “bedroom. There’s a closet in the bedroom with a few extra blankets and a pillow or two if you need them. The bathroom has soap and fresh towels and facecloths. Anything else you might need, you come on over I’m, uh,” you gesture with a thumb over your shoulder, “just on the other side of the wall. That sounds creepy. I should go.”

You make a move to walk past him but Dean steps in front of you. He licks his lips nervously, hands clenching and relaxing.

“Why don’t you stay…for a bit.”

You let out a long breath when he looks at you. The expression in his eyes is soft and sad. Something inside of you recognizes that look, has seen it every morning in the mirror for too long. The muscles in his jaw work and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“You want a beer?” you ask.

He lets out the breath he was holding in a whoosh of relief. The smile that stretches across his face is so genuine, so sweet, that you relax and smile back.

“That would be great,” he nods eagerly.

“Alright, just, uh, make yourself at home and I’ll go grab a few things.”

“You need any help?”

“No, no, that’s fine. Just give me about ten minutes.” You glance at the timer on the counter, ticking away and brush past him, flashing him a quick, nervous grin before hurrying out.


	2. Chapter 2

You can’t remember the last time you actually cared about how you looked. Even now, you only look in the mirror long enough to fix your hair and smear cherry Chapstick on your lips. You don’t give yourself a chance to wonder if he’s nuts or a serial killer…you’ve been through enough to spot the crazies and you know how to take care of yourself.

With a six pack under one arm and a selection of vinyl under the other, you head back over to the apartment, nervous as all hell. You pause at the door, reach for the door knob, hesitate, and almost drop the beer when the door opens.

“Hey,” Dean grins at you, reaching out for the six pack, “let me help you…are those records?”

“Uh, yeah,” you smile weakly. You have no idea what he might like.

“At Folsom,” he says, turning his head to read the title, “nice.”

You follow him inside, eyes closing when you smell the deep, rich scent of butterscotch and buttery crust.

“What do you listen to?” you ask.

Dean hesitates, looking up at the ceiling, “Uh, rock. I like blues too.”

You set the records down on the small round table in the kitchen, going over to check on the pie. The crust is golden brown and it’s just about ready to come out of the oven.

“Neil Young, Jimmy Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Iggy & the Stooges, David Bowie, Joni Mitchell, Pink Floyd…” Dean flips through the records, smiling.

“I just got Dark Side of the Moon, came out last month,” you say, turning off the timer and sliding oven mitts on.

Dean nods.

“If you see anything you like, there’s a record player in the closet in the bedroom,” you say, pulling the pie out. You place it down on the stove, reaching over it to turn the oven off.

Taking the mitts off, you turn and find Dean staring at you. You shift uncomfortably and clear your throat.

“Y/N,” he asks, voice low and his tone serious, “why are you here alone?”

“W..what do you mean?”

“You said your dad passed but do you not have any other family? I mean, you must have a boyfriend.”

“No other family,” you say softly, “they’re…I’m….”

You can feel your face warm and brush quickly past Dean on your way to the bedroom.

“I’ll get the record player,” you call weakly over your shoulder.

In the bedroom, you open the closet, kneeling down to push aside a few boxes. Even though you’re careful not to look at the labels, the neatly printed names, you know every line and curve of every letter. You remember the day you packed up your family’s belongings, the few things you couldn’t part with. You know exactly what is inside each box.

You hear Dean behind you as soon as you finger tips brush against the case of the record player. It was your mother’s.

“Hey, sorry. Forget I said anything,” he says, “I…uh…I know…”

You shake your head, “Don’t worry about it,” turning to hold out the record player to him.

Dean watches you. Lips pressed together, he reaches out and takes the worn blue case. You rock your weight back on your heels and stand, brushing self-consciously at the front of your jeans. The room feels small or maybe he’s standing too close but you’re hyper aware of how he smells, the width of his shoulders, the soft fabric of his shirt. The fading light brightens his green eyes and gives a reddish tint to the stubble on his cheeks and chin.

You point past him to the door, clearing your throat. Dean bites his lip and lets out a slow breath, staring down at the case in his hands for a moment before following you out.

Back in the kitchen, Dean sets up the record player.

“Beer?” you ask as you hunt for a bottle opener.

“That would be great,” he says, plugging the machine in and sitting in front of it with the stack of vinyl.

“Oh my god!” he cries out, “Deep Purple, oh honey…”

When you look over, he’s beaming up at you. His smile is wide and bright and makes him look younger and so much more relaxed. You can’t help but smile back.

“What’s your favourite track?” he asks, carefully sliding the record out.

“On Machine Head?” you take a beer from the case, popping the top off with an opener you found in the drawer, “Lazy.”

Still grinning, Dean nods and sets the record on the platter, carefully placing the needle down. He fiddles with the volume as the song starts to play. You hand him a beer, unable to stop the wide smile from spreading across your face as he grins up at you.

“Thanks,” he says.

Dean brings his knees up, hugging them to his chest as he takes a draught from his bottle.

“So,” you uncap a beer for yourself and join him, sitting on the floor across from him with your back to the small couch, “what brings you to town?”

“Uh, good question,” he takes another sip as he thinks, “family…kind of.”

You laugh, “That’s eerily vague.”

“It’s complicated and all sorts of messed up,” he admits, his look sincere.

Nodding, you confess, “I know all about complicated. And messed up.”

Dean leans forward, holding his bottle out, tilting the neck towards you, “Here’s to complicated messes,” he says, adding, “and pie.”

“Complicated messes and pie,” you laugh, leaning forward to clink your bottle against his. You both sit back and take a sip.

“Aside from complicated, family, your incredible skills with pie and outstanding taste in music…OH, and that car,” Dean looks over his shoulder as though he can see the Belvedere, “what can you tell me about yourself?”

“Uhhh….shit. Well,” you lean forward again, stage whispering, “I’m a waitress in a crappy small town and, by cover of darkness, I fight crime.”

“A waitress, huh?”

You both laugh.

“What kind of crime?” he asks.

“Oh, you know, the weird kind; ghosts, werewolves, evil Santa Claus.”

Dean chokes on a mouthful of beer. He presses the back of his hand to his mouth. Getting up quickly, he hurries over to the sink, coughing.

Mortified, you set your beer down and get up, “I am so sorry. I was just joking, right?” You wrap your arms around yourself and pace, muttering, “Good job freak.”

“No, no,” Dean gasps, his eyes are red rimmed, “just went down the wrong way.” He clears his throat and takes a few deep breaths.

“Look, maybe I should go,” you say, pointing a thumb over your shoulder at the door, “I can leave the records and beer…”

“Please don’t,” he says, closing the distance between you, “trust me, ghosts and werewolves I can handle. Stay.”

 

Gently, he grabs your forearms, hands sliding down until they’re in yours. His hands are warm, rough and dry. He wraps his long fingers around yours and leads you back into the living room.

Your heart races at the contact and the proximity of this incredibly beautiful man. Your stomach does a little flip flop when he lets go, bending over to pick your beer up off the floor. His jeans are worn and faded but fit just right.

You sit on the couch, tucking yourself into a corner as Dean grabs his beer from the kitchen.

“Full disclosure time,” he says, sitting close to you on the couch. His weight shifts the cushion causing you to slide into him. You try to hide your blush by taking a long swig of beer.

“Alright,” you agree.

“I travelled through time to try and stop something from happening but I’m not really sure what that is and if I even can.”

“Oh, that’s good,” you say, “a good conversation starter; free will versus destiny.”

Dean looks surprised, asking, “Do you think we have free will or are we destined to follow a pre-ordained path?”

“Shit,” you sputter, “I can barely figure out what socks to wear with what shoes.”

Dean laughs.

“Maybe a bit of both,” you say tentatively.

Nodding thoughtfully, Dean finishes off his drink, setting the bottle on the floor by his feet.

“What’s your crazy?” he asks, settling back and stretching an arm on the cushions behind you.

Having to remind yourself to breath, you press your back into the arm of the couch, turning your body towards him.

“My family was killed by a werewolf…or something like that.”

He doesn’t react the way you expected. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t laugh. You immediately regret saying anything.

“I guess I …uh…misunderstood the full disclo…”

“NO,no!” Dean protests, “I just take my monsters a bit more seriously than most, I guess. What happened?”

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he gets up to get himself another beer, stopping at the oven to lean over the pie. He takes a deep breath, smiling.

Faltering a little, you begin, “I was…we were coming back from visiting my grandparents in Abilene. It was late and something ran in front of the car. My dad swerved to avoid it. I…it was huge. The car hit the ditch and rolled. They say my mom died in the car but my dad and brother…”

You watch as Dean uncaps his beer and walks back over to you. He stands in front of you, green eyes on your face. You’ve told this story before and have seen every type of reaction; disbelief, shock, disgust, some people even thought it was funny. No one ever looked at you the way he does. Even your friends could barely veil their annoyance under an expression of pity and eventually they dwindled down to just one. Gemma.

But Dean watches you so openly and attentively…you quickly quell any hope and decide to just keep going.

“It pulled my brother out,” your voice starts to quaver, “my dad crawled out and…all I heard was screaming. I tried to get out but I was pinned. There was so much blood,” you close your eyes. You feel Dean sit beside you, his arm brushing against your legs. “I must have passed out. The next thing I remember was the hospital; being told my family was gone.”

“What did they say happened?”

You let out a long, shaky breath, blinking quickly as if you can brush away the images flashing in your mind.

“A state trooper said the bodies were thrown from the car.”

Dean nods but doesn’t press any further.

“So you use your powers for good then?” he says, taking your empty beer bottle from you and setting it down.

You laugh, “I fill people with sugary baked goods during the day and hunt down the beasts that feed on them at night.”

“Hunting is dangerous,” he says seriously, “especially if you’re doing it alone.”

His tone is so steady, so sincere, that he catches you off guard once again.

“Well,” you push yourself up off the couch, “the pie should be cool enough if you want a piece.”

Dean takes a drink and nods, “That would be amazing.”

The needle scratches softly against the record as the arm lifts and settles off to the side of the vinyl. Dean gets up, settling himself on his knees by the stack of records.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smutty smut! And pie.

Cutting into the pie, you smile to yourself.

The filling is rich and dark, the knife hitting the crispy crust underneath. It’s perfectly cooked. You portion a generous piece onto a plate, then another, grab some forks and make your way to the living room.

Dean is hunched over your records, smiling to himself.

You’re not sure what to think of him, of the whole situation. He seems too good to be true and experience has taught you that something too good to be true usually is.

Turning to look at you, Dean frowns, “What’s up?”

You give yourself a quick shake, “Nothing,” you pass him a plate and fork. He grins, accepts the fork, and cuts quickly into his slice with it.

Dean closes his eyes as he brings the fork up to his mouth. His lips, surprisingly full and lovely, open eagerly, closing around the utensil. He pulls it out slowly, the tines clean, and sighs before chewing.

The hunter moans, nodding his head, “That,” he swallows, “that is a masterpiece.”

Delighted, you sit by him on the floor, leaning your back against the couch. It’s not until his plate is clear and he looks up to see you staring that you realize that’s exactly what you’ve been doing.

You look away quickly, cutting into your pie, blushing furiously. 

“Can I get you another piece?” you ask hesitantly.

When you look up, Dean’s face is inches from yours. You gasp softly, dropping your fork onto the plate, pie forgotten. His eyes are almost impossibly green. Freckles dust his face, you follow them with your eyes over the bridge of his nose as your heart pounds, attention drawn to the stubble on his cheeks and chin, to his lips. Those lips.

You swallow hard, setting the plate on the floor.

Dean raises his hand to your face, brushing his knuckles over your jaw, up your cheek. He brushes your hair back from your face, fingers playing out above your ear and around the back of your head as he gently pulls you close.

Looking back up to his eyes, you bite back a whimper at the desire reflecting back at you; his heavy lids, dark pupils blown wide. His breath on your mouth is hot, coming out in quick, shallow puffs.

You reach out for him tentatively. The moment your hands touch his shirt, he presses his lips to yours. You grip his shirt tight as desire bolts from your dizzy brain down between your legs, hot and molten.

Dean’s lips are soft and move expertly against your own. He smiles against your mouth, muttering, “Cherry Chapstick.”

You chuckle and he takes the opportunity to swipe his tongue along your open lips, brushing against your teeth. You open yourself to him, lips and legs, and he moves closer, tongue entering your mouth, knees and hips between your thighs.

Tongue meeting his, he tastes incredible; the tang and deep earthy taste of hops, the rich, buttery flavour of the pie. You wrap your arms around him and he does the same, pulling you closer, gently lowering you onto the ground.

Laying back, you pull at the green button down shirt, tugging it off his shoulders. 

Not breaking the kiss, Dean helps by lifting one arm, then the other. You toss it aside, hands sliding under his black t-shirt, running up his body. 

He pulls back, lazy smile slowly stretching across his face. It’s then that you realize he switched albums. ‘Have you ever seen the rain’ begins as Dean runs his fingers over the strip of flesh exposed between your jeans and top. Your skin tingles under his touch and you let out a long breath, closing your eyes and arching your back.

Dean slides his hands under your shirt, pulling it up over your ribs, placing soft kisses on your stomach. You sit up just enough for him to work the garment up over your head, humming along to the music, singing the chorus softly under your breath.

Dean shakes his head and smiles, looking you in the eye a moment before letting his gaze roam over your chest and abdomen.

If you had predicted this particular turn of events, you would have chosen your undergarments more carefully. Your bra, unremarkable white cotton, matches your underwear at least. No ruffles or frills, lace or bows. You blush when you notice your nipples, hard and straining against the soft cups, are visible through the thin cotton.

Dean notices also. He leans forward, cupping your left breast, running his thumb over the pert nub. He dips his head to kiss the mound, fingers sliding into the cup and pulling it down. You gasp as he takes your nipple into his mouth. Bringing yourself up onto your elbows, you rest your cheek on the top of his head, closing your eyes and moaning softly into his hair.

He suckles softly, the fingers of his left hand circling your left breast, kneading, his thumb teasing your nipple. You sit up, forcing him back but he stays latched, his teeth grazing, nipping, taunting. Pushing your body into his, you reach back and unclasp your bra.

The straps slide loose down your arms. Dean kisses his way to your shoulder, drawing your bra off. You grab the hem of his shirt. Dean sits back on his heels, raising his arms as you pull the black t-shirt up and over his head. He runs a hand through his hair, looking you over.

You scoot forward, biting down gently on your lower lip. Dean shifts forward, lips meeting yours. Hands at his waist, you fumble with the button on his jeans.

“You okay?” he pulls away, eyes on your lips. He covers your hands with his.

“Um…” you clear your throat, avoiding his gaze, “just a little nervous.”

You feel his hand under your chin. Dean tilts your head up, he tilts his head, catching your gaze.

Heat flushes your face. You force yourself to hold the eye contact.

“It’s….oh hell…been awhile.”

“We don’t have to do this,” Dean releases your chin but doesn’t move back.

You notice the rope around his neck, a strange amulet resting on his chest.

You take it between your fingers, rubbing your thumb over the metal, warm from the contact with Dean’s skin.

Dean’s fingers close gently around yours, “A gift from my brother. He gave it to me a long time ago.”

“Are you close?”

Dean looks down at the amulet, “It’s a bit complicated.”

You lean in, closing the distance between you, brushing your lips softly against his. Releasing the amulet, you run your fingers down his chest.

Feeling more confident, you unbutton his jeans. Dean’s hands find your breasts once again, kneading roughly. He deepens the kiss as you unzip his pants, tugging them down his hips. 

Lips against yours, he asks, “Bed? Couch?” pulling you up to stand with him.

You push him towards the couch, hooking your thumbs into his underpants and pulling down. Dean turns until the back of your knees hit the couch. He deftly unbuttons your jeans, pulling them and your panties down.

Pants halfway down his hips, Dean pushes you gently. You fall back, sinking into the cushions and laughing. Your laugh dies in your throat when you see his cock, thick and hard, above his clothes. He pulls your jeans and panties off, letting them fall at his feet, making short work of his own garments as you slip your socks off.

When he kneels in front of you, you frown at him, lips parted in a silent question as he grabs your hips and pulls your ass to the edge of the couch.

Dean parts your knees and you blush furiously, noticing the rapt attention he pays to the soft curls between your legs. You have never felt so exposed.

“Umm,” you stammer. 

Dean dips his head, making you yelp when his tongue flicks over your labia.

He looks up at sound, eyes half lidded, nostrils flaring.

Not breaking eye contact, he lowers his head again, his tongue prodding inside of you before licking a maddening path up to your clit. You gasp, watching him in amazement. No one has ever touched you in this way before.

“Relax,” he says softly.

He takes your clit between his lips, flicking it with his tongue. You close your eyes and take a deep, slow breath, all your attention on the sensation.

Hands on your thighs, Dean rubs his thumbs up and down while his mouth and tongue tease the sensitive peak. You feel moisture pool between your legs as delirious pressure starts building below your pubic bone.

You buck your hips up against Dean, humming with pleasure when he slides two fingers slowly inside of you. He strokes up and out, his movements deliberate and thorough.

“Oh,” you gasp, legs trembling slightly as tendrils of pleasure course inside of you, the feeling building until you’re writhing, fingers clenching around nothing.

“That’s it baby, yes,” Dean moans.

Your eyes widen as he pulls his fingers out and places them in his mouth, sliding them out slowly. He pushes them back up inside of you, the pad of his thumb making maddeningly small, quick circles over your clit.

You arch back, reflexively closing your legs around him, pressing your knees into his ribs as you come undone. Pleasure courses out from your core. You cry out, squeezing your eyes shut tight.

Sitting up quickly, you slide into his lap, rutting your hips against his hand as your climax peaks. One arm around his shoulders, you press your lips to his shoulder, tasting the salt of his sweat.

It takes only moments but to you it feels like a blissful eternity to come down, trembling from the aftershocks in Dean’s arms. He slides his fingers out, placing his hands on your hips to steady you. You lower your head, forehead resting on his shoulder, breath coming in quick pants against his chest.

Dean shifts, hands on your ass, he lifts you enough to slide his cock slowly inside of you. You groan as he stretches and fills you, the muscles of your pussy still contracting. Dean’s eyes close as your muscles, tight, hot and wet, clench around him.

Adjusting yourself, you place your hands on his shoulder and start rocking your hips. Dean’s hands slide up to your waist as he leans in for a deep, hungry kiss. He lifts you, sliding you up his cock, pulling you back down until you establish an intoxicating rhythm. 

You break the kiss, looking down at his thick erection as Dean drives himself inside of you faster, coated with your wetness.

When you look at his face again, his eyes are closed, lips twitching. You pick up the pace, breasts rocking and bouncing with the rhythm. Dean closes his fingers around your left breast, bringing his mouth down to trace his tongue slowly over your nipple before pulling it between his teeth.

Gasping, you tighten your grasp on his shoulders, pushing him down onto the floor. He releases your nipple roughly, feverish eyes on your face. He complies, settling back down, hands on your hips.

You rock on top of him, sliding up and down his length, reaching back to grab his thighs for support. Dean swears softly under his breath, fingers tight around your hips as he drives his hips up.

Muscles in his arms and legs tensing, Dean presses his head back, neck straining teeth clenched. When he comes, his face relaxes, lips part and he moans and gasps. You slow but continue rocking in his lap, feeling him twitch inside of you, beneath you. 

When his mouth curves into a lazy smile, you stop and lower your body over his for a kiss. Dean’s hands slide up the back of your thighs, trailing slowly over your ass, skimming your back. He buries his fingers into your hair.

His chest moves against yours, breaths steadying and evening out. 

“Well,” you lick your tender lips, sore from bruising kisses and his scruff. You smile shyly at him.

“That was awesome,” he finishes for you, grinning.

His attention diverts for a moment and you watch as he reaches across, grabbing the fork off of your forgotten plate. He brings it to his mouth, “Perfect!”

You laugh as gooey butterscotch filling falls onto his cheek.

“Shit,” he mutters.

You swipe the pie off with your finger, holding it to his lips. Dean takes your finger in his mouth, sucking the sweet dessert off, thoroughly.


	4. Chapter 4

There’s a special quality of light to the dawn of a new day. The brightening of the horizon begins gradually at first, indigo sky lightening to a softer, milkier blue, golden sunlight chasing the stars and moon with a spectacular display of colour, varying by season. 

Inside, on an early spring day, lovers wake in that light. The rising sun spilling light into all the darkest places, weaving its way over the couple in bed, trying to reach in between them where skin meets skin, warmth is shared, and touch causes the sweetest bliss.

***

A puff of soft breath against your mouth – a sigh- then the soft pressure of lips pressed to yours. You open to him, eyes still closed, smelling his skin and feeling the chill in the air where your shoulders are exposed. It feels early, your brain still foggy from the deep, unknowable place your mind falls prey to in sleep.

You wake slowly at first, aware of the increasing passion in the kiss, warm arms pulling you close, a leg hooked around your thighs. The sheet and blanket shift, the shushing sound of the fabric against skin soft, domestic. The bed creaks as Dean transfers his weight, pulling you on top of him, his hands running down your shoulder blades, fingers trailing over your back and hips, cupping your ass.

He hardens under your pelvis. You smile to yourself and open your eyes, blinking sleepily in the dusky light of a new day. Dean’s eyes are heavy lidded, lashes brushing against his freckled cheeks. You shift up above him to kiss one soft lid, then the other, sliding your knees down to cradle his hips and open yourself to him. Although your mind is slow to wake, slow to form complete thoughts, your body is humming with arousal, electric pulses of awareness sparking the delicious, chaotic chemical whirlwind of sex in your brain.

Dean reaches down between you to slide his cock over your clit and down. He pushes inside of you slowly, arching his hips up with a groan. Your body adjusts, eagerly accommodating his girth despite the slight ache testifying to the intensity of the night before. He slides his fingers through the slickness gathering around his cock, bringing the wetness up to your clit, lubricating it with gentle touches. You trail kisses down his jaw, his stubble rough against your bruised and slightly swollen lips. He gasps when you nip at his neck, throwing him off his rhythm.

Picking up the pace, you slide down on him, reveling in the feeling of him inside you. You sit up, finger tips on his stomach, closing your eyes in a moment of pleasure as you rock your hips back, grinding down on his fingers, then back up.

“Yeah,” Dean moans, stroking your clit, grabbing your right hip with his other hand, fingers tight. You press your knees into the mattress , riding his hard, slick cock faster. Puffing out shallow quick breaths mixed with groans, you lean back, adjusting the angle and causing his cock to slide against your g-spot. Your eyes flutter shut, all your focus on the delicious sensation of Dean under you, inside of you, fingers working your clit, other hand releasing your hip to cup and knead your breast.

Your ass slaps onto his thighs, pelvis grinding down. Dean grunts, thrusting his hips up to match your pace and drive himself deeper inside of you. The bed springs protest noisily, the bed bouncing and rocking in time, hitting the wall rhythmically.

With a suddenness that makes you groan, Dean pulls his hands away just long enough to lift you up and off him. He gets up onto his knees, eyes hooded and dark with arousal, and presses his lips roughly to yours as he pushes you back and down onto the bed. You’re close to the edge, your neck straining to keep your head up. Dean pulls your left leg straight and straddles it, hooking your right up onto his shoulder. His eyes on your wet, eager pussy, he licks his parted lips and palms his cock, stroking it several times, eyelids fluttering, before pushing himself back into you.

You let your head drop, moaning. Pace rough and fast, Dean pounds himself inside of you. You look up when you feel him stroke your clit, wildly aroused at the sight of Dean watching himself fuck you, eyes on his cock, bottom lip caught between his teeth and nostrils flaring.

From this angle, Dean’s pelvis grinds down just so on your clit, making you writhe against him, chasing the pressure building in your abdomen and pussy.

“Yes,” you gasp, hands grabbing at the covers, bunching them as you match Dean’s pace . Lifting yourself onto your elbows, you gasp and pant, your orgasm flooding your brain with pleasure, muscles tightening and releasing around Dean.

Breath and muscles shaking, you ease back lazily, body humming bliss, a celebratory chemical cocktail of satisfaction pumping through you.

Dean gasps, throws his head back, eyes closing but before he cums, he pulls out. Seeing you hanging half off the bed, he grabs your hips and pulls you up until your head is resting on a tangled knot of the blankets. He spreads your thighs; easing his hips back and ass up, lowering his head until you feel his warm breath against your pussy. You shudder when you feel his tongue lap at you, the tip barely grazing your clit, now overloaded with sensation. You jump and giggle.

Dean’s shoulders jerk as he strokes himself, fist tight around his cock, still wet from your pussy. You shimmy down, pushing him back against the pillows.

“Let me,” you murmur, feeling almost shy.

Dean kisses you, his tongue brushing briefly against yours, tasting of you, before the contact is broken as you pull away. Pushing his hand away, you stroke him, working your body between his legs and lowering down until your lips brush against the soft tip of his cock. Rewarded with a grunt of appreciation, you take him into your mouth, sucking and lapping, working your tongue around the edge of his head. His cock twitches and Dean raises his hips. You take more of him, as much as you can while maintaining suction, fingers wrapping around the base, applying pressure.

Dean arches his back, face twisted in pleasure and mounting ecstasy. You bob your head, sucking and stroking, watching him come undone. He reaches above his head to grip the pillow tight, crying out.

***

You know he’s leaving.

Tucked together, limbs intertwined, breath matched, the realization that you will probably never see him again settles over you. You press your lips to his chest, his skin warm and salty. Breathing him in deep, you try to quiet your mind and the questions that threaten the peace that settled over you.

You won’t say anything, don’t say anything, and neither does he. As the sun climbs in the sky and the day begins, Dean showers and dresses. You don’t join him, deciding instead to make him a quick, farewell breakfast.

You feel silly brushing moisture from your eyes as you stand over the stupid toaster. You hear him turn the shower off and busy yourself blotting bacon and not overcooking the eggs. When the bedroom door opens, your racing heartbeat rushes adrenaline to your fingers and toes, making you feel shaky and uneasy.

He comes out of the room, hair wet, dressed in yesterday’s clothes. His lips stretch into a smile but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Dean sits beside you at the small table, his thigh pressed against your knee, and eats. You sip your coffee, take a few bites of egg and toast, and lean against him. You both take every opportunity to touch, his knuckles brushing against your arm, your lips nuzzling the crook of his neck, but you don’t speak. Sometimes, there really are no words.

When he finishes his breakfast, he takes his few belongings out to the car. You follow him out, shivering against the slight chill in the air but the sun is warm. You close your eyes and tilt your face up, enjoying a moment out of time. When he comes close, you hear him, smell him, and try to commit the moment to memory- the sunshine, his scent, the feeling of his body close to yours. Dean wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a hug. You pull him close, tight, and fight to stay calm. He kisses the top of your head, your ear, jaw, and finally, sweetly, your lips. Then he’s gone.

***

Present Day

It’s been months since his last visit. One of the nurses recognizes him immediately, smiling with relief. He’s the only one who visits the woman in room 213. He started coming two years ago, not long after the woman was admitted; advanced Alzheimer’s, no family to take care of her. Handsome and charming, he gives them each a quick smile as he signs in, portable record player tucked under his arm.

In room 213, he pulls open the curtains. There is no sunshine today; the sky is heavy with dark clouds, the air thick with electricity and the promise of a storm.

He never says anything. He sets up his record player, places the vinyl gently on the deck, glides the arm over, sets the needle down, pulls up a chair and sits. The music isn’t always the same. Today, CCR’s ‘Have you ever seen the rain’ can be heard through the halls.

Dean takes the woman’s hand, cool and unresponsive in his grip. He doesn’t care what the nurses’ say, what the doctors say, she knows he’s there and he will be until the end.

As the song comes to an end and another begins, the woman dreams of warm sunlight, the scent of a man, and a kiss.


End file.
